


Into the Dark

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Pre-Slash If You Squint, but it would have to be some hella squinting, gen - Freeform, middle earth geography meets the author's vague hand-wavy explanations, modern names too, mostly - Freeform, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 23:17:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3955669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin chooses his frown with his tie every morning, or, at least, he would, if he still wore ties. About a year ago, he exchanged bespoke suits for more casual attire when he was first admitted to Dale St. Psychiatric Care facility. And what a long, strange year it had been, with hippie psychiatrists, fellow in-patients with a taste for winged-rat, and book-clubs by proxy. But it gets even stranger as Thorin attempts the Herculean challenge of befriending a man with a perpetually messy mop of hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> My submission for the Hobbit Story Big Bang. The plot bunny for this came from my brain deciding that LotR!verse and the Antler's album _Hospice_ both give me feels, and it would totally be an a-triple-plus idea to combine them. Also inspired by MistakenMagic's "A Remover of Obstacles." Sorta.
> 
> Title for this fic is taken from the Death Cab for Cutie Song.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter are as follows: mental illness (PTSD, anxiety, paranoid schizophrenia)
> 
> Chapter 1: In which the author employs pathetic fallacy and abuses the concept of a motif, Bilbo is a space cadet, and Thorin has all the social grace of a spider on roller blades, and they're both the best (worst?) at unintentional double entendre.
> 
> Sorry about the slog. This chapter just _wouldn't_ end.

The sign reads 'Dale St. Psychiatric Hospital' but all William Robert—Bilbo—Baggins sees is 'Cage'. Maybe it's actually pronounced 'Hell', he's not entirely sure. He stood there, in the communal garden, looking like a bit of a tosser, really. The wind was whipping his unruly, shaggy hair into his face, he was clutching the collar of his coat with one hand, and stroking a faded polaroid in the other. Underneath his feet, the gravel skidded and crunched as Bilbo shifted his position to ease some of the tension forming in his hip from the way he had been standing. This was his first time visiting the institution, and there was nothing like going somewhere new to invoke the halcyon hues of “home”. Bilbo had not been in the Shire since before he left for university, before the Earth first coalesced from clumps of stardust ages upon aeons ago. Or so Bilbo felt on days like today, when old age and crisp early-spring winds seeped in, chilling him to the bone. Attempting to recall some mediocre modicum of warmth as he clutched his coat closer to him, he thought back fondly on lazy summer days spent reading in the garden.

  The last of which, he had spent sitting cross legged and reading Ovid’s Metamorphoses in the shade beneath the awnings. It was a lovely day altogether: thin wisps of clouds slithered through the heavens carried on slight easterly winds, and sweet peas in the zenith of their bloom climbed the trellis beside him, their tiny lavender flowers proudly pointing towards the sun. It was calm, cathartic, and Bilbo was happy—not that he wasn’t happy now, but it was a different sort of happy; today, his definition of happiness was more akin to a healthy dose of ataraxia. Enthralled by the words “I am dragged along by a strange new force. Desire and reason are pulling in different directions. I see the right way and approve it, but follow the wrong,” empathising with them on a deeply intimate level, he turned each page with an enthusiastic earnestness.

  It was his paternal side that was prim and polite—the voice of reason ushering him against his more impulsive decisions. But he was also a Took, vivacious and gregarious, and grew up encouraged by his mother’s audacious adventures. Bilbo felt this dichotomy within him on that lazy summer’s day when Daniel Roger—Drogo, for short—came over to celebrate with an impromptu going-away party. He had been enjoying the serene solitude of his afternoon before being rudely interrupted by his cousin plucking the book from his fingertips.

  “Wh-what? How… dare—” Bilbo sputtered when it was thrown carelessly into a recently dug-out garden bed.

  Standing with his hands on his hips, Bilbo’s younger cousin peered over the rims of his glasses with a magnificently petulant pout pursing his lips. Bare feet playfully kicked at Bilbo’s shins and were swatted away.

  “Come on, the others are waiting! We can’t start without you!”

  “Waiting for… start what?”

  A hand was extended to Bilbo, who was then dragged down to the Green Dragon and led to a table where Hamfast and Primula were sitting out at the front of the pub, steins of ale waiting for both Bilbo and Drogo. There was no reprieve from the overbearing summer sun, all the tables in the shade already being occupied. His other senses were assaulted also; the air was stuffy with cigarette smoke—clogging his nose and making his eyes water—and the cacophony of the patrons chuckling and chortling was the antithesis of his quiet spot prior. Despite all of these anathemas his face was nearly split in two with a brilliant grin upon seeing his friends. Taking the seat proffered to him and reaching for the cold, perspiring mug, Bilbo was about raise it in cheers, before Primula slurred out a toast of her own.

  “To Bilbo! I wish you the best of luck in whatever avenue of life you assault with your presence!”

  Her words ran together in a rushed jumble, as a testament to how much she had already imbibed. Still, Bilbo smiled and thanked her, resting the lip of the stoneware against his own. The liquid was bitter but cold, and it was a welcome respite from the harsh heat of the day. This first ale became a second and then a third, each time his mug refilled as by magic—though Bilbo had his suspicions that it was Hamfast who kept buying more rounds. His Took side rose to the challenge when a drinking game was suggested, and soon their raucous laughter joined the ruckus.

  Hours passed in this manner, simply enjoying the easy camaraderie amongst friends. Metamorphoses—bequeathed unto Bilbo as it had been to his father—was forgotten. Left to lie in the dirt, the paper underwent a metamorphosis of its own as it degraded and decomposed. Eventually, dusky pink carnations would sprout above it, Bilbo’s book literally pushing up flowers. But soon, the sun began to descend in the sky, and the harsh light of mid-afternoon was muted to a dull crepuscular glow complemented by the illumination of antiquated street-lamps. Bilbo’s body, too, began to feel the slide of time, as his stomach let out an ostentatious grumble.

  Somehow, the quartet managed to reach the communal consensus that they would return to Bilbo’s for a barbecue. To no-one’s surprise the next morning, when retrospectively ruminating on the whole ordeal, trying to operate a barbecue whilst so heavily inebriated wasn’t a wise decision. Primula had singed her left eyebrow off in her endeavours to set it alight, and this is why it was so conspicuously absent in the photograph that Hamfast drunkenly fumbled to take later that evening. It was this photo of her, Drogo, and Bilbo that the latter now stared at, carefully stroking the incongruous patch of pale flesh above her right eye.

* * *

 

  Bilbo always had a fair fascination with eyebrows. He felt that they could be quite revealing about a person, if one only knew how to look. Quite often, too, they were the first place that he did. They could express a multitude of emotions, and Bilbo had long since mastered the language of angry eyebrows: there were subtle nuances between a brow furrowed in confusion, frowning in discomfort, or scowling in aggravation. Currently, Bilbo’s own were quirked in curiosity as he lifted his head to gaze over at the tall, dark, and gloomy stranger who was blatantly glaring at him.  
Ovid’s words echoed in his mind today as he contemplated asking the man whether he wanted to go grab a cuppa with him. “Desire and reason are pulling in different directions.” Desire pulling him one way to reach out and form a relationship with a human being who was actually alive as opposed to some mythological figure and paragon of masculinity manifested in human form who had been dead for millennia—if he even existed in the first place. The breath of reason in the back of his mind whispered that if Bilbo had done something so egregious as to offend him so, it would probably be erroneous of him to proposition the stranger. As he contemplated the pros and cons of approaching Mister Gloom-and-Doom. He looked away from the stranger and up to the clouds that were heavy and swollen.

  What would he say? What should he say? What could he say? Some witty aphorism from Vergil’s Aeneid? “The gates of Hell are open night and day; smooth the descent and easy is the way.” It would be all too easy to make a complete arse out of himself, and in all probability, Bilbo would. At times, he rued having all the charisma of a stalk of limp celery. Perhaps he should stay away from the Latin poets.

  An unfunny polemic about the political climate would also not be the way to introduce himself. So Bilbo stood and stared at the skies, as if imploring them to open up the secret to competently interacting with people. Something about his invocation must have been mistranslated as the skies did not reveal the secret to working through his social ineptitude. Rather, they opened up, and a big, fat raindrop fell squarely on Bilbo’s forehead. He wiped it off with the back of the hand that had been holding his coat, but then another—through sheer serendipity—slipped through the small sliver of space in between his neck and collar, and slid down his chest.

  Bilbo shrieked shrilly and stumbled backwards in shock. Looking around, he saw that Mister Broodypants had seen the entire situation, as though it was straight out of a comedy skit. Flustered, he was unable to meet the other man’s gaze, and the now rain-slicked photo slid from his grasp. The photo was trodden underfoot as Bilbo scampered through the doorway to the cafeteria to seek reclusive safety. It was a split-second decision to cut and run, as it was more about mitigation than damage control at this point. Bilbo couldn’t un-make an arse out of himself, getting caught out in the rain like he did, but he could try to prevent his incompetence from making an even greater arse out of himself. Operative word in this case being try.

  Only a few stragglers besides himself remained, most visitors likely seeking the warmth of the library instead. Shoes squeaked against the linoleum as Bilbo sought the security of a table secluded in a corner by the window. Flickering too-bright fluorescent lights lit the wide, open space in the space that doubled as a dining room and recreation area, and smelled faintly of carbolic. Uncomfortably damp from even the few drops that fell, Bilbo’s coat was heavy and constricting. With trembling fingers that slipped over the buttons, he slowly threaded them through their holes. When the last of the pesky plastic obstacles were free, he shucked it and shivered. Neatly, he hung the terra cotta-coloured garment over the back of his chosen chair and rolled the sleeves of his taupe button-up to his elbows.

  He pulled the chair out in preparation to sit, but russet curls flopped down into his eyes, and he tried to brush them away. They were resolute, and the wet locks clung to his forehead, hanging low and obscuring his vision. He was so distracted by trying to remove them that he missed the seat of the chair completely as he sat and began to fall backwards. Bilbo’s fall was fortuitously broken, however, when a strong pair of hands caught him around the chest. He could feel that they were cold and clammy, even through his button up shirt. They also tickled slightly, being placed awkwardly between Bilbo’s ribs and armpits. Although innocuous, it was the first physical contact he’d had in…well, too long for Bilbo to care to admit—even in the privacy of his own mind. It was uncomfortable but not entirely unwelcome.

Deep claret spread over the apples of his cheeks as Bilbo flushed. A popular idiom states that those who live by the sword, die by it. It was fitting that Bilbo should die as he lived: flustered by basic human interaction. He was a mature adult, and something as simple as a stranger helping to catch him should not be cause for such chagrin. It’s not like it was an embrace-embrace. Even so, Bilbo still felt he would need to have “spontaneously combusted from embarrassment” as his epitaph. He internally scoffed at the mental image of Hamfast delivering that eulogy. The situation was more mortifying than hilarious, however, and he was certain that he would just melt into a puddle of humiliated goop. It was perhaps nearly as bad as the time when his summer flowers had begun to bloom, and it turned out that he had inadvertently planted opium poppies; poppies, for which, he had snuck the seeds from his Grandfather’s garden.

  Bilbo was so preoccupied that he didn’t realise that Mister-If-Looks-Could-Kill had helped him to his feet again, and the two were now facing each-other. He did not notice that the dark-haired man had begun to speak until he had begun to glower at Bilbo again, who had to shake himself out of his stupor. He opened his own mouth to respond, but it felt dry, like it was stuffed with cotton, and his tongue felt like a lead weight. It opened and closed as Bilbo floundered for words, any logical avenue of discourse escaping from the tip of his tongue each time he tried to move it.

  “P-pardon?” Bilbo eventually stammered out.

  “I asked if you were alright.”

  “Oh…erm, yes, I suppose—thanks to you. I’ve been saved a bruised bum in lieu of a bruised ego, not…not that you needed to know that. But thanks again, I guess.”

  Dark eyebrows scrunched in concern and lips pursed slightly as the taller man nodded in skeptical acknowledgement, seemingly dissatisfied. Blue eyes, squinting slightly, appraised Bilbo. Scrutinising him from his calfskin plain toe bluchers to the moist mop of messy hair upon his head, the intense inspection distressed Bilbo, and he began fiddling with the wristband of his watch. His minute movements drew the gaze of the stranger, and Bilbo mentally smacked himself in the forehead. How could he be so rude?

  Gathering himself, he ceased fidgeting, and Bilbo brusquely thrust his right hand out towards the other man. Blue eyes widened in shock almost imperceptibly for a mere moment, but Bilbo noticed the fresh raising of his brow. Immediately, he retracted his arm, sticking his hands into the pockets of his ivory chinos instead. It was painfully obvious that was the wrong thing to do when the taller man looked away, shoulders slumping. He rubbed his hands at the nape of his neck before carding his fingers through dark hair and Bilbo stood there awkwardly, clenching and unclenching his fists in the seemingly infinite recesses of his pockets as he shyly shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  Honestly, this is the exact reason why he never went out anymore, and why he preferred living vicariously through the tales epic folk heroes and hardy adventurers. That way, he didn’t have to deal with situations where the silence hung so thickly that Bilbo wondered if he hadn’t lost his hearing. Surreptitiously, he glanced towards his coat and then towards the door. Bilbo could make some excuse for an escape, apologise profusely, and run home with his tail tucked between his legs to hide in the study for the rest of the day. But his imagination failed him, and Bilbo could not come up with anything that didn’t sound like he didn’t want to be there. While true, it was also rude, and he wouldn’t abide by being so disrespectful of someone. So, he bowed his head down to look at his shuffling feet while waiting for the tension to dissipate.

  Bilbo did not notice the other man turn to look at him. He did not notice the flash of shame, and then determination, that lit up blue eyes. He did not notice the taller man set his feet apart, square his shoulders, and puff out his chest. He did not notice the large hand fall from where it mussed dark tresses; what Bilbo did notice was when it appeared just inside his field of vision. His head snapped up, and his expression was a mocking mimicry of the taller man’s from earlier. Russet eyebrows were raised in shock, his mouth slightly agape as Bilbo’s gaze rapidly alternated between reciprocating the stranger’s blatant stare and the proffered hand.

  Time seemed to slow for a moment, and for all his cognitive capacity of a concussed sea cucumber, Bilbo had the canny capability to comprehend the future of the next few seconds: the stranger would withdraw his own hand, Bilbo would be denied the human contact that he so desperately craved, and it would be a tragedy on par with those penned by Sophocles himself. Hastily, Bilbo reached out to pre-emptively counteract the retraction of the gesture, and firmly grasped the other man’s hand in his own. It was still cool, as all of his inner turmoil and minor existential crises had only occupied but a few sparse seconds since Bilbo felt the hand last, and it would not have had significant opportunity to reach thermal equilibrium with the cafeteria.

  Squeezing slightly, it felt Brobdingnagian against his own, eclipsing and encompassing it, but it did not scare Bilbo. The contact felt natural, as comfortable as before. Bilbo’s lips quirked into a lopsided grin as he placed his other hand on the back of the stranger’s, effectively sandwiching it between both of his own. They only shook their arms once—the action sending tremors down his arm that he felt on a fundamental level—but their grip lingered. Longer than was strictly proper, whispered some little voice in the tenebrous depths of his mind. But the desire for contact was reciprocated as a small, sheepish grin curled in the corner of the stranger’s lips.

  “William Robert—Bilbo.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’m Bilbo Baggins.”

  His face remained impassive momentarily as they simultaneously separated their hands. Softly, almost shamefully, the tall man slinked his into the front pockets of his jeans as Bilbo crossed his arms in front of his chest and resumed fiddling with his watch. Belladonna had given it to him as a birthday present many years ago. The metal was tarnished, and the face was scratched slightly, but Bilbo felt that it added character and vehemently defended it whenever his awful cousin-in-law Lobelia tried to get him to replace it. Bilbo could decide how to dress and accessorise himself, thank you very much.

  “Thorin.”

  “Tho—rin,” Bilbo enunciated, tasting the syllables on his tongue. They were foreign to his mouth, and he felt unable to properly form the sounds. He nodded once, deciding that he liked it, after a pause. Bilbo wondered what it meant.  
The two stood there, staring at each-other for some indiscriminately excessive epoch. Bilbo was the first to look away, glancing at his wrist to check the time.

  “I’m keeping you.”

  Bilbo started and stumbled back into the table, hitting his tailbone just so against the corner, and winced. Thorin misinterpreted the expression as a grimace, and began to scowl at himself for his selfishness. Bilbo was dressed well, and that meant that he was Somebody Important. Somebody Important meant that he would be busy, and was probably just too polite to mention how megalomaniacal Thorin was being.

  “Oh, no! Not at all!”

  Thorin squinted at Bilbo, suspicion as obvious on his face as his nose. The man was obviously too polite to tell Thorin to sod off, so he decided he would just go. He had turned to leave and had taken a few steps towards the door before halting mid-stride, having remembered his original purpose for following Bilbo in out of the rain in the first place. He internally debated turning around, as Bilbo was quite distracted by his own emotional debacle. Everything had been going so well for once! Well, by Bilbo’s standards, anyway. He had met and introduced himself to someone without making a buggering arse out of himself, having made only a slight arse out of himself.

  Or so he thought until Thorin turned away. His abrupt exit prompted a whole new slew of anxious thoughts for Bilbo, who was now rubbing his temples in exasperation. It was the handshake, wasn’t it? Bilbo knew that two hands was improper, that he shouldn’t have held it for so long. When Thorin came back, and Bilbo didn’t know what to make of anything in the universe anymore.

  “I believe this belongs to you.”

  “Erm… what?”

  Bilbo had still not regained full focus, and Thorin rolled his eyes. With a flourish, he indicated to the bruised and battered polaroid that he was holding in his hand. There were little bumps in the paper from where it was poked by the gravel, and there was a smear of dirt from when Bilbo stepped on it. Though it was a little worse for wear, it was unmistakably the photo of him, Primula, and Drogo taken by Hamfast. Tentatively, he reached out, stopping halfway, as though the photo was just a hallucination. How had he dropped it? Something so important as…as—Bilbo could not finish that thought before his arm dropped dully towards his side, and his entire body drooped down so that his arse met the cafeteria floor after all Thorin’s attempts at prevention. He held his face in his palms, and though he did not sob, Bilbo was still wracked by sorrow.

  Utterly confused, Thorin’s brow scrunched. Dís was always saying that he needed to work on his people skills, but he didn’t think that they were that bad so as to reduce a grown man into a miserable heap on a cold linoleum floor. After some thought, Thorin reached the conclusion that it wasn’t the gesture itself, and therefore not his fault. He still felt awful though and chanced a peek at the weathered photograph he had held out to Bilbo. Immediately, he recognised the reddish-brown locks of Bilbo. The other two figures in the picture gave him pause as he tried to determine their relationship. There were definitely physical similarities between Bilbo and the man on the left…brothers, maybe? Thorin didn’t know what to make of the woman on the right of Bilbo, who was kissing his cheek, and was…missing an eyebrow? A lover of some description, then… A girlfriend or wife? Dead, maybe, which would explain the lack of ring on Bilbo’s finger and his reaction.

  “You must think I’m a right mess,” mumbled Bilbo.

  “Not at all,” Thorin answered without hesitation.

  “M-my cousin and his sweetheart.”

  It felt strange that Thorin would be privy to so sensitive a secret—like he was intruding on a part of Bilbo that felt incredibly intimate. Not that it was, not really. It was just the relations of blurry, slightly sepia strangers to Bilbo, another stranger. Thorin didn’t know if Bilbo was the type to seek physical comfort but crouched down beside him and timidly let his hand rest on the rumpled heap that Thorin assumed was Bilbo’s shoulder. The material was soft under his hands, and Bilbo’s warmth radiated through. If Thorin were poetically inclined, he could have composed a verse about the absurd metaphor such a trivial observation represented. But Thorin was never good with words, or good with people, and so he didn’t know what to do to comfort the other man.

  Thorin cleared his throat to begin speaking, but Bilbo made no acknowledgement of the sound. He tried again, to no response, and decided to persevere.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Sitting in a heap on the floor?” Bilbo attempted to be flippant, but his voice was too carefully modulated, too monotone, and the humour fell flat.

  “For a cuppa.”

  Bilbo was silent, and Thorin half-thought that he hadn’t heard. Once more, awkward silence stretched between the two. Thorin had always cared for his younger siblings, later his grandfather, and most recently his nephews. Caring was something he did a great deal. Comforting someone was not a subject that he knew well. He was totally at a loss as to how to approach Bilbo.

  Bilbo’s reasons had to do with the dichotomy between desire and reason warring within him. Each time he succumbed to his impulses, his decision had been borne of tragedy, some disaster gripping his life by the bollocks in a vice grip.

  "Be patient and tough; one day this pain will be useful to you,” wrote Ovid. Each time, it had been the best idea that Bilbo had since the one before. The last such time was the day that Bilbo received the news about Primula and Drogo.  
To celebrate their fifth anniversary, they had bought themselves cruise tickets. The primary engine of the liner had a small crack in it: a tiny thing—practically impossible to notice, the reports said. Innocuous enough at first, certainly, but not when the ship went belly-up in an ignominious inferno and dozens of lives were lost. Among those had been Primula and Drogo. Out of close to a hundred persons on board—comprised of passengers and personnel—barely a score made it out alive.

  This tragedy left little four year-old Francis Donald—Frodo—orphaned. At first, Bilbo wasn’t sure if he should take him in—he was a single man in his middle ages already, hardly the optimum choice of guardian by his reckoning. Though Bilbo rather thought that Frodo would rather prefer himself to any alternative guardians, and so Bilbo adopted the responsibility of caring for the four year-old orphan as his own. It was difficult to adjust initially—Bilbo had always been fond of salad, and all Frodo ever seemed to eat was potatoes. They eventually approached an accord, and things began to normalise.

  Until Frodo began to complain about hearing voices—whispers in the breeze, whispers in the trees, things that Bilbo dismissed as childish fancy. Frodo, too, began to stop talking about them as he grew, so Bilbo naturally assumed the matter resolved. Then the voices evolved from hallucinations to delusions. Frodo would be panicked, paranoid; he would refuse to eat the mashed potato that Bilbo prepared especially for him because it was poisoned; he refused to allow Bilbo to tuck him in at night for fear of being smothered. The most exhausting thing—for Bilbo and his wallet both—was Frodo’s fear of the dark. It was a natural fear, Bilbo figured, what child wasn’t afraid of the dark at one point? But Frodo demanded that the light in his room be turned on at all times. He claimed there to be shadowy, tenebrous figures lurking in the corner, looming ominously.

  One day, when Bilbo was chatting on the phone to Hamfast, was when the penny dropped; all of these little characteristics of Frodo’s, quirks as Bilbo tried to rationalise, indicated something gravely amiss. Attempting to be a good guardian, Bilbo took him to see a paediatric psychiatrist. Dr. Grey diagnosed Frodo with paranoid schizophrenia and prescribed some medication for him. Bilbo was appalled at himself for letting Frodo suffer alone all those years, for trying to justify a serious mental illness as childlike behaviours, and vowed to himself to do better for Frodo. It was difficult but never once did he regret taking Frodo in. Bilbo was patient, he toughed it out, and the pain, the penury, the strife that had simmered between Uncle and Nephew served to strengthen their bond—Ovid again proving his words to be accurate.

  Many years had since passed without major incidence—until a month ago, when Frodo forgot to take his prescription on an overnight school excursion. Frodo was not entirely at fault; Bilbo blamed himself equally. He had been in a rush to get to the University that morning and had left Frodo largely to his own devices at his insistence that, at sixteen, he was perfectly capable of packing for an overnight stay. So Bilbo acquiesced to his protestations and did not think to double check that Frodo would take his medication with him.

  Frodo would have, too if not for being in a rush himself to catch the bus and forgetting the packet of pills in the kitchen pantry where it resided. The first day passed without him noticing, and by the second day Frodo hardly saw the value of imposing on Bilbo to deliver it to him. The evidence of his naïve folly was only seen later, when fully relapsing, Frodo fell from the roof of the school gymnasium whilst hallucinating it as the centre of a live volcano. He spent a fortnight in the hospital as a result of his injuries and was discharged home without too much fuss. Frodo was not invalidated, but he was much more dependent on Bilbo—who was no longer of an age conducive to caring for two people. Upon mutual agreement, Frodo was then granted a reprieve from his schooling obligations on the grounds of recovering from his injuries and placed into care. It was the very same hospice that Bilbo visited Frodo in that morning, where he sat now.

* * *

 

All of these tumultuous thoughts and memories cascaded in his mind in the space of what felt to be scarce seconds as he ruminated on the idea of ultimatums. In his mind, taking Frodo in had not been a case of simply the bad and never the good. Following the path led by his desire had been both a disastrous, wondrous adventure. In this instance, Bilbo could see that it was also the right one. That is why Bilbo answered in the affirmative to Thorin’s proposition for a cuppa. Weak, watery, barely more than a whisper: definitely yes, nonetheless. Slowly, Bilbo sat up, and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palm.

  Bilbo derived some sardonic satisfaction from the pithy observation that he was not sure who was more surprised by his response. Thorin rose before him, attempting to disguise a tight-lipped grimace with a yawn. Bilbo glanced down again at his watch, and his eyes nearly bulged out of his head at how long he had been like that. He hadn’t thought it to have been more than five minutes at the most, but it had been the better part of an hour. No wonder Thorin was so surprised when he finally answered!

  Bilbo took the hand that Thorin offered gratefully, feeling his age in his knees as he tried to rise to his feet. He noted that it was profoundly warmer than before. It felt…nice to have the quiet support there. Bilbo was definitely past the age where he would admit that holding hands with a stranger was pleasurable. Bilbo removed his hand under the pretence of gesturing for the photograph—the poor printed polaroid was completely ruined now, and Bilbo sighed internally. Or he had thought he had, but Thorin’s hunched shoulders and scrunched brow indicated otherwise.

  “I’ll be right back,” Thorin muttered. Bilbo’s eyes narrowed slightly, and his head tilted to the side.

  “I’m…sorry?”

  “Tea—I’ll just go grab it.”

  “Oh. Oh! Let me come with you!” As he was speaking, Bilbo’s hands fluttered wildly, and in an attempt to reign himself in, began rubbing them together. Thorin’s eyes widened slightly in understanding, and he shifted himself to lean over Bilbo slightly.

  “You’re cold.”

  “No—well, I am a bit…oh, bother—listen, I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own mug.” Thorin just huffed in response, and Bilbo pouted petulantly.

  “I’m just…concerned for your—coat.”

  “Erm, what?”

  “Someone…someone may take it.”

  “Take my—coat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?” And to emphasise his point, gestured around the room, where Thorin and Bilbo were alone. At this, Thorin conceded with a shrug. Without thinking, Bilbo reached out to place his hand on Thorin’s elbow, who flinched away from the contact. Letting it drop to his side, Bilbo sighed wearily and looked down. His bluchers were filthy from the mud outside, and the splatter patterns were fascinating. Was that ouroboros, maybe? Regardless, Bilbo would have to ensure that they got a good polish before he wore them next.

  “Put it on while I grab us our tea.”

  Bilbo’s head snapped up so fast that he was certain that he gave himself whiplash, and proceeded to subtly massage the nape of his neck.

  “No! Er, I mean…no. I don’t want to impose.”

  “It’s no imposition.”

  “Blast it! Why are you being so infuriating?” Bilbo clamped his hands over his mouth the moment the words were out. Of course, it would be Bilbo to misstep in their repartee. It was too late, however, and he could not trap them before the sound waves they were carried on drifted over to Thorin, drawing a small, mirthless, chuff.

  “I’m glad I amuse you so.”

  “You’re the one that’s infuriating. Are you always so ungrateful towards people trying to do nice things for you?”

  “Certainly not. I’ll have you know that I can be quite hospitable, when people don’t think me to be an invalid!”  
At this, the minute glint of mirth dancing in Thorin’s eyes did mute.

  “Oh, I…I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean it like that,” Bilbo supplied lamely.

  For a moment, when Thorin shifted away, Bilbo was afraid that he would leave. The awkwardness between them was almost physically tangible, and it felt as though he was wading through peanut butter. It was thick, viscous, and there were little crunchy chunks catching and scratching at his skin. Anxiety pressed down upon his chest like an anaphylactic attack, and Bilbo found that he had difficulty breathing. Sod it all, he thought sullenly. Bilbo had nearly resigned himself to the realisation that he should never be allowed to interact with people ever again—and should probably just retire from his job right now and live with nine cats named after characters from French surrealist theatre—when Thorin cleared his throat.

  “Listen, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just—” Bilbo cut out and worried at his lip.

  “Come with me.”

  Bilbo gazed appraisingly at Thorin, while Thorin glared at Bilbo. Outside, rain fell and thunder clapped, without any regard to the cacophony of half-formed sentences tumbling around in his mind.

  “Er, I’m sorry?”

  It was Thorin’s turn to sigh.

  “I’m inviting you to come with me to get the tea.”

  “I…oh. Well, right then.”

  They meandered through the labyrinth of plastic chairs and laminate tables. Bilbo, whose strides were uncertain, shy, his head bowed down as he stared at his feet, with his hands once more placed in his pockets, trailed slightly behind Thorin. Thorin, clad in tatty old sneakers, shuffled slowly—which suited Bilbo just fine; with his own shorter steps, it allowed the two to keep pace together.

  The distance to the canteen wasn’t particularly far, and they approached it quickly. There were a collection of mismatched mugs sitting beside a hot water urn on the stainless steel bench top that formed the counter to the canteen, as though each time the old crockery had been smashed, the institution had just bought a new set to supplement. Bilbo reached out for the novelty cat-shaped one.

  “Could use a bit of a pick-me-up, eh?”

  “You know what they say: a hero’s work is never over,” Thorin grunted. But Bilbo, having no sense of self-preservation, did not let the matter lie. Bilbo pretended to playfully nudge Thorin, cognisant of the taller man’s reaction earlier to physical contact not initiated by himself—and leaving ample space between his elbow and Thorin’s hip.

  “I thought it was no rest for the wicked?”

  Thorin squeezed his eyes shut momentarily, muscles in his jaw working as he ground his teeth, and Bilbo’s cheeky smirk fell along with his spirits. Oh, blast it! Why did he keep bothering the poor man with his sorry attempts at humour? It was as though he only ever opened his mouth to swap feet. In a couple of minutes, Bilbo would get his tea, drink it, and be able to say his goodbyes graciously to Thorin.

  “That’s the same side of two coins, isn’t it?”

  Relief washed over him—he was glad that he hadn’t instigated an impasse. His shoulders slumped forwards slightly, and he gripped the edge of the stainless steel countertop. Bilbo’s attempt at a smile was not cheeky, but tight-lipped and tense.

  “Do you know, I’ve…erm—I’ve never heard that malaphor.”  
Thorin looked down at him, head tilted slightly to the side, but face impassive.

  “Mal… aphor?”

  “Oh! Yes! It’s a portmanteau of…uh…malapropism and metaphor.”  
Thorin did not recognise either portmanteau or malapropism, but understanding flashed in his eyes on the last term.

  “The original saying is ‘two sides of the same coin,’ which I understand to be an…erm…an allusion to the idea that—”

  “In layman’s terms, if you would.”

  “Oh, sorry! It essentially means that although the means may be different, the goal is ultimately the same.” At this, Thorin nodded. Completely turning towards Bilbo, resting an arm on the counter, and leaning against it, he shrugged.

  “Mine means the opposite, I think—that it is two different goals achieved by the same means. In this case, the ‘means’ being bone-deep exhaustion…though I rather think that it is yours that is the…malaphone, you said?”  
Bilbo snorted inelegantly, and once again his Baggins side reprimanded him. Thorin’s face remained stoic, though he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

  “Mal-aphor. And I suppose that makes sense—but like I said, I had never heard it before.”

  Their conversation lulled, and Bilbo was left standing there awkwardly next to Thorin, punctiliously trying to look anywhere but at him. His eyes darted around, barely settling on any one object before seeking another. Shelves of mostly home-brand non-perishable ingredients were meticulously stacked by someone who had played a great deal of Tetris as a child. In the corner, Bilbo could espy large, shiny doors that likely led to the cool room and freezer. Most peculiarly, there was a monochrome poster of a man with shaggy black hair staring forlornly into the camera, but Bilbo was too far away to read the ostentatious word art that adorned the top. He was certainly not mesmerised out of the corner of his eye by the impatient tapping of slender fingers, nails ragged and bitten—fingers of hands that he had held twice today!

  The Baggins side of him was scandalized; he had hardly known the man for an hour! Granted, most of which he spent lost in his own thoughts and not even aware of Thorin’s presence and those two times were a handshake and a helping hand up. Admonishing himself for acting like a giddy teenager, and attempting to justify acting in such an inappropriate fashion as a result of a lack of physical contact with another person in far too long, Bilbo self-consciously interlinked his own fingers together and began twiddling his thumbs in a half-hearted thumb war against himself. This made him feel rather silly, and Bilbo chanced a glance over at Thorin to see if his ridiculousness was being observed, who also seemed to share interest in playing the “scrupulously avoiding eye-contact” game. Egregiously gazing just too long, Thorin caught Bilbo staring, and he snapped his head away to hide the blush spreading on his cheeks.

  “How do you take it?”

  “S-sorry?”

  Thorin eyed him warily—not that Bilbo could blame him, not really; he must look ragged with his now-mostly-dry hair hanging in his face, his shirt and trousers rumpled from when he was a crumpled heap upon the floor. On top of it all, Bilbo had been constantly spacing out to have existential crises every second minute, and that was not a sign of a well-adjusted person. He tried not to recoil but still felt as small as a quark under Thorin’s indelible gaze.

  “I asked ‘how do you take it’? Straight?”

  Bilbo stared dumbly, his mouth slightly agape. Well, that was rather for—oh. Thorin was referring to his tea. Thorin stared dubiously at Bilbo for a moment, narrow-eyed with a furrowed brow and with a slight downward twist of his lips. The distraction tore Bilbo’s eyes away from the small coffee-stain on the linoleum tile by his feet that had been entrancing him.

  “White, with two sugars. Thanks,” Bilbo squeaked, his voice pitched an impressive falsetto.

  “Are you sure you’d like a tea-bag at all, then?”

  “Y-yes…quite certain.”

  “This non-caffeinated stuff is bollocks; it’s probably wise that you take it that way. Can barely taste it.”

  “Erm…yes.”

  Thorin ripped two sugar sachets and poured in a small container of UHT milk, and having stirred the milky liquid with a swizzle stick, it was still swirling as Thorin held out it to Bilbo who gaped at the porcelain as if it was a creature with one eye and one horn that would spring forth and eat him. The two stood there in silence, as Bilbo questioned the logic that had brought him here, and Thorin questioned Bilbo’s taste in how he took his tea. Thorin didn’t want to force the much-aggrieved cup of tea on Bilbo, but he didn’t want to hold it forever. Thrusting it forward slightly, in a gesture to tell him to take the buggering mug, Thorin sloshed the liquid over the mouth. As it rushed forwards, Bilbo felt an embarrassingly wet sensation on an awkward part of his anatomy.

  A sharp squeal much like the one that Bilbo released outside in the gardens erupted and startled Thorin. In a true comedy of errors, he then proceeded to drop the porcelain mug on the floor, where it promptly shattered. Juxtaposed against the prior Beckettian stillness, Bilbo’s stammered string of expletives and Thorin’s profuse apologies seemed rather surreal; the entire experience was an esoteric mesh with slapstick comedy that neither knew what to make of. There was a moment where their eyes met, and the tension between them transitioned into absurdity. Thorin threw his head back, placed his hands on his hips, and barked out a short laugh, before halting abruptly as if surprised by his own actions.

  “Go on, get it all out,” Bilbo offered, grinning impishly.

  “I—no. No, I apologise. I uh…I’ll tidy this mess up, if you wanted to clean yourself.”

  Bilbo blinked blankly at Thorin. When the other man awkwardly gestured to the wet stain on the crotch of Bilbo’s chinos, he felt his cheeks burn in a brilliant blaze of humiliation; this moment also deserving—nay, demanding—a spot on William Robert Baggins’ wall of Most Embarrassing Memories. A high-pitched giggle bubbled up and burst forth from Bilbo’s suddenly dry and chapped lips. Clapping his hands over his mouth, he attempted to hide abashedly.  
Despite being a Professor of Literature—specialising in antiquity, albeit—Bilbo had no words to adequately articulate the complex cascade of emotions within him. He had giggled. Giggled! At the idea that he appeared to be incontinent! How old was he to still appreciate toilet humour? Even Frodo was more mature than that!

  The indignation that he giggled at such infantile fancy bore down upon him like the world upon Atlas. If Atlas was 5’6”, and instead of the world bearing down on him, it was infinite mortification. It wasn’t a perfect metaphor, but as Bilbo lamented, he did lack the suitably loquacious lexicon to eloquently describe his feelings. The two stood there anxiously, unconsciously mimicking each-other’s poses: Bilbo’s hands had dropped from covering his face to twisting in front of the conspicuous wet patch on the front of his chinos; Thorin holding one wrist in front of his belt buckle, and clenching and unclenching his other fist. Both stooped their shoulders and stared at the mess at their feet, Thorin seeming to have shrunk significantly—no small feat considering his height.

  “I should—”

  “I had better—” They both began, looking up as they spoke at the same time. Bilbo gestured for Thorin to continue at the same moment that Thorin reciprocated the action. The latter rubbed at the nape of his neck in an attempt to awkwardly disguise the motion, the former not even trying to obscure his blatant exasperation as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “But really—”

  “Honestly—” The dance continued; the verbal equivalent of the awkward shuffle when two people are blocking each-other’s way, and they simultaneously step to one side, and both step the other way. Bilbo raised his right hand in the universally accepted sign for “stop,” and squared his feet.

  “I’ll get the shards, if you could…erm—“

  “I’ll get some serviettes to mop up the mess,” Thorin interjected.

  “Yes! I mean, of course.”

  Bending down, Bilbo collected the smaller pieces of broken porcelain chips and stacked them in the larger. Thorin reached over to the far side of the countertop—much too far away for Bilbo to have reached—and grabbed a handful of paper serviettes from the dispenser. The two managed to complete their tasks without any major hassles, save for Bilbo acquiring a slight cut on the thumb.

  “I’ll, uh…get the first-aid kit.

  “No, no, it’s fine. It’s just a little prick—I erm, I mean nick. It’s fine, really.

  As Bilbo was far too old to be flexible enough to physically put his foot in his mouth to stop his rambling, as fine a job as he was doing metaphorically, he settled for his thumb. He felt a bit infantile, resorting to suckling on it for comfort like a babe. Then Bilbo removed his thumb from his mouth with a wet, obscene, pop, and winced. First toilet humour, then sucking on his thumb, and then making funny noises with his mouth. Up until today, he had been adamant that he had been an adult. Or, he was chronologically, at least. But as the day progressed, even he was becoming less sure.  
Blue eyes narrowed slightly and keenly focused on the action, and Bilbo idly wondered if the old wive’s tale about faces freezing when the wind changed directions was true. Rather than construing it as juvenile, Thorin interpreted it as the younger man being too noble to admit his discomfiture—if that was a quality that Thorin recognised in himself, well, in the privacy of his mind, his thoughts were his own. Reaching out for the other man’s wrist, his movement lost momentum before closing the distance half way, and he left his hand to dangle there awkwardly. Bilbo stared at the appendage. Thorin stared at Bilbo, staring at the appendage. His arm felt heavy, and it began to feel like too much effort keeping it up.

  When had gravity ever been this strong? Had the world been swallowed by a black hole? It would explain the way that time seemed to freeze in the instant that green eyes met blue. It would explain the way that the rushing of blood in his ears seemed like an .mp3 track accidentally placed on repeat. When Bilbo proffered his hand to Thorin to inspect, the moment was shattered much like the porcelain mug previously. 

  Tentatively, Thorin reached out the rest of the way and gently enveloped Bilbo’s hand in his own. It was soft, as he had noted before, but he hadn’t realised how small it was when compared to his own. Carefully, he turned it over to inspect the cut on the thumb, where a small bead of red was forming. A low rumble formed in his chest, and he nodded once, imperceptibly. The second nod was stronger, more vehement.

  “I’ll get you a plaster.”

  “You must really want it badly,” Bilbo stammered. “I-I mean, to do my hand. Medically. Doing medical things, like doctor-patient.”

  That was how Bilbo found himself back at his chair by the window, a small plaster wrapped around his thumb while watching the rain trail down the glass. The shadows it threw ran down his face like tears, and that’s how Thorin found him after returning from disposing of the moist-napkin-and-mug-shrapnel mess. He had also offered to get Bilbo another cup of tea. This time, he graciously accepted—Bilbo was loth to make another spectacle of himself. They sat in a companionable stillness, as opposed to the terse silence that seemed to doggedly pursue them earlier. His own tea was cold by now, and he grimaced with each sip he took. The decaffeinated tea was bad enough straight, but after steeping too long and leaving to cool, it became pure vitriol.

  Thorin ran through different avenues of discourse in his head but could not find anything to say that did not at best sound trite and at worst sound insensitive. He knew Bilbo’s name, and that he had at least one cousin—but judging by the reaction previously, he was hesitant to bring it up in civil conversation. Bilbo dressed well, but Thorin was hardly inclined towards fashion himself; the navy blue button-up that he was wearing was one of his better garments.

  “I don’t recall seeing you here before,” he tentatively began. They sat in silence for a few more minutes, Bilbo staring out of the window; Thorin staring at Bilbo, waiting for some form of acknowledgement of recognition. It was so infuriating, he was so infuriating. Thorin, not Bilbo, that was.

  Why couldn’t he hold a mature, intellectual discourse with someone of approximately commensurate age? Why couldn’t he be more like he was before? Thorin dreaded that question, but it was always at the forefront of his mind: it’s not like he was particularly better with people beforehand—Dis would testify to that—but he felt as though there was an incorporeal barrier that prevented him from ever connecting with people fully anymore. It was times like this when Thorin felt much like Sisyphus forever trying to move Mount Olympus, rather than merely surmount the pinnacle. It should be so simple! There should be no cause for abstract allegories from antiquity! Thorin rued this moment even as he lived it, he rued the moment he caught Bilbo in his arms, he rued the moment that he picked up the poor polaroid discarded by Bilbo, and he rued the moment that he ever set eyes on Bilbo.

  “I’m terribly sorry, but I didn’t quite—erm…catch that?”

  “I was just saying how I hadn’t ever seen you around here before.”

  “Oh, no! I don’t stay here. Not…not that it’s a bad place to stay, and I have nothing against people who do…” Bilbo began to trail off when he saw Thorin’s frown, misinterpreting his emotional turmoil as distaste for Bilbo’s rambling.

  “I was here to visit my nephew, Frodo. I don’t have anything—just moderate social anxiety.”

  “Just?”

  “Yes, it’s not that bad, really—“

  “That is not what I meant. It is not just. Your mental health is no less important than your nephew’s; your issues are no less valid.”

  Bilbo’s eyes widened, and his brow receded comically into his hairline. Never before had anyone actually authenticated his anxiety as a legitimate issue! It was as if Thorin had reached in and carefully struck Bilbo like he was a crystal glass, in the one place that would make him ring. It was not some imprecise, accidental action, but the masterful movement of someone well-acquainted with the subtleties of the tines of a tuning fork. It was targeted to make him sing out one pure, startled note despite himself.

  Here was Thorin, whom Bilbo had made a complete and total buggering arse of himself in front of, unequivocally lending him support! It was a light feeling, liberating, and Bilbo felt truly happy for the first time in years. Bilbo’s lips quirked in a smile so radiant, so warm, that Thorin thought could be a direct cause of global warming because he feels a large frozen chunk of ice around his heart suddenly break off and crash down into the sea of Human Emotion at the sight alone.

  Thorin mustered a watery, tight-lipped smile of his own in response before clearing his throat awkwardly. They didn’t speak any more that afternoon, not through all the next fifteen minutes that they spent together. Not even to exchange farewells, or an invitation to converse again. Their eager enthusiasm from earlier ebbed away as the rain fell from the heavens. Bilbo tried not to be too offended. He had as much ability to continue the conversation as Thorin did. Thorin was offended at himself for the same reasons.

  Bilbo put on his slightly damp coat and tucked the photo into an inside pocket before buttoning up and trudging out into the elements. Thorin collected both mugs and placed them on the canteen counter before following.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the transcendentally talented knowmefirst for some phenomenal artwork, and the most magnificently magnanimous katjalaroux for betaing through my ludicrously florid prose.


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